


Takes a Toll

by AShortWalkToDelinquency



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Sex, Concussions, Double Anal Penetration, Episode: s02e06 Head Case, Established Relationship, Hallucinations, Hurt Malcolm Bright, Is it real?, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29558391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AShortWalkToDelinquency/pseuds/AShortWalkToDelinquency
Summary: He's just starting to drift off when Gil's voice catches his attention and tugs him back from the brink of sleep, though Malcolm still keeps his eyes closed, too damn tired to care overly much about proper decorum. He only hears the low, honey-sweet tones at first — that same voice that has a tendency to make him hard at the most inopportune moments — so it takes a moment to realize that there's something not quite right. That something about the words iswrong."Twenty two years, Malcolm. Twenty two years you left me rotting in that cell for crimes you knew I never committed."
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright/Gil Arroyo/Claremont Gil
Comments: 18
Kudos: 20





	Takes a Toll

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I've never written anything quite like this before, so I hope it turned out okay ❤
> 
> Thanks to KateSamantha for looking this one over and helping to provide some clarity.

The case is closed. Rupert Swann is in custody, having given a full confession to the murder of not only Lyle Reynolds, but the Bowery Ripper killings as well. Statements have been taken, paperwork has been filed, and Malcolm just wants to go home with Gil and curl up beside him for the next three days. 

He wants to replace that gut-wrenching image of the man he loves, chained to a wall — in his father's goddamn cardigan, no less — locked away for Martin's crimes. The visions he'd experienced in that elevator shaft were bizarre and confusing and he knows there's a hell of a lot to sort through, but right now, he has a raging headache and his body is pulsing and throbbing from his fall and he doesn't have the mental real estate to deal with any of it.

So he says goodbye to Dani and then heads to Gil's office, moving slowly, cautiously, his aching muscles stretching and pulling with each step. Gil's at his desk, hunched over a file folder with an elbow propped on the surface and his head resting in his hand. Despite seeming fully engaged in what he's working on, he looks up the second Malcolm approaches his door.

"Hey, kid," Gil smiles softly, letting the pen tip from his fingers and fall to the papers below with a muted thud. "How are you feeling?"

There's probably no point in lying at this point — he knows he looks terrible; saw the blood stains on his collar and the filth coating his clothes when he washed the dried blood from his face in the men's room — so he doesn't even try.

"I'm exhausted," he says simply. A few steps in and he's practically collapsing onto the sofa, bringing a hand up to press against his forehead when the motion leaves him a little dizzy.

"Can you give me ten minutes to wrap it up, or do we need to go now?" Gil swivels his chair away from the desk and levers himself to his feet. He looks worried. More worried than Malcolm is comfortable with. The funny thing is, he's actually been trying to rein in his reckless streak since he and Gil started dating, hating the frown lines that crease Gil's face each time Malcolm winds up injured or nearly killed.

Those frown lines are so very prominent right now.

"Finish what you're doing. I'll just rest here until you're ready. No rush," Malcolm assures him. As much as he'd like to head home, he actually feels moderately better just having Gil next to him, so waiting doesn't seem nearly as draining as it did a moment ago. Seeing _his_ Gil, safe and free and exactly how he should be, is doing wonders for Malcolm's overtaxed brain. So when Gil doesn't look entirely convinced at Malcolm’s assurances, Malcolm leans forward and plants a chase kiss on his lips. "Honestly. I'm fine. Go finish your Lieutenant-y duties."

Gil grins, and leans in to counter Malcolm's kiss with another of his own before he heads back to his desk, smirking at Malcolm as he looks over and says, "Now I know you have a head injury. 'Lieutenant-y?' That's definitely not a word."

"Could be," Malcolm murmurs. He settles into the corner of the couch and lets his head fall back carefully, his eyelids fluttering closed as soon as he stops moving.

Gil chuckles lightly and Malcolm listens to the scratch of his pen on paper as he starts to sign off on all of the reports on his desk. "Sure thing, city boy. Just relax a little. I'll only be a few."

Malcolm feels himself drifting in the in-between as he lays there, not quite asleep, but not quite awake, either. It's...pleasant, really. The steady scrape of the pen is a sort of white noise that drowns out the sounds of the precinct around them, but more than that, it reminds him of Gil's presence, and it's _that_ which allows him to finally relax and unwind from the stresses of the day.

His muscles uncoil slowly, releasing the tension he's been carrying and permitting the ache to run free through his body, knowing that fighting it will only make it worse.

He's just starting to drift off when Gil's voice catches his attention and tugs him back from the brink of sleep, though Malcolm still keeps his eyes closed, too damn tired to care overly much about proper decorum. He only hears the low, honey-sweet tones at first — that same voice that has a tendency to make him hard at the most inopportune moments — so it takes a moment to realize that there's something not quite right. That something about the words is _wrong_.

"Twenty two years, Malcolm. Twenty two years you left me rotting in that cell for crimes you knew I never committed."

Malcolm's blood runs cold as the distinctive jangle of handcuffs being released emerges from right next to him, but he can't seem to drag his eyelids open. Can't seem to do much of anything, really.

"At first, I understood. You were just a boy when you called the police. But I thought, when you grew up, that you would come forward. That you'd tell the world who your father truly was and clear my name."

Malcolm's heart slams against his ribcage. There's a voice in his head that's screaming _notrealnotrealnotreal_ over and over again, but he can feel Gil's (not Gil's) breath on the side of his face, hot and so very close, and then, suddenly, a hand wraps over his throat, one finger at a time, pressing lightly. It doesn't cut off his air — it's clearly more of a threat than anything else — but even still, his breath leaves him in a shuddering whoosh and he can't seem to suck in any oxygen to replace it.

"You let me pay for your father's crimes. For over two decades. I guess you're a Whitly through and through."

Malcolm jerks up, nearly throwing himself off the couch as his gaze feverishly searches the room for the version of his lover who had been chained up, hair wild, with a gleam of something savage and vicious lying just below the surface. 

All he finds, of course, is _his_ Gil.

His Gil, whose head jolts up at Malcolm’s abrupt movement and gasping breath, concern painted in every line etched deep on his face.

"Bright?" He rushes over, dropping to the couch next to Malcolm and sliding a hand around the back of his neck. His touch is especially tender, ensuring he doesn't hurt Malcolm by accidentally touching any sore spots from his unexpected journey down the elevator shaft. "Hey. You okay?"

Gil ducks down a little, trying to get Malcolm to make eye contact, but Malcolm is suddenly afraid to meet his gaze, afraid he'll find that same manic gleam that sparked behind the eyes of the other version of the man he loves.

"I'm fine," Malcolm hurries to say, scrubbing a hand over his face. Only once he's taken a few calming breaths does he risk making eye-contact, relieved to find nothing but love and concern. "I'm fine. Truly. Just a bad dream."

Gil stares at him for a moment, then gives the lightest of squeezes to the back of his neck. Malcolm's heart stutters to a halt in his chest as he feels the phantom echo of that squeeze over his throat once again, but Gil is talking and he forces himself to focus on the words.

"Alright. Let's call it a night and get you home. The rest of this," Gil waves a hand out to encompass the stacks of paperwork on his desk, “can wait until tomorrow."

Malcolm nods and manages half a smile before they're pushing to their feet together. The hand around his neck slips down to his bicep when he sways slightly in place, steadying him, and Malcolm does his level best to shake away the remnants of his dream. Gil would never hurt him. This Gil, the _real_ Gil, has nothing for which to be angry with him.

Still, it takes the entire car ride home for his heart to settle into a regular rhythm. By the time they pull up in front of his loft, the tension has left his muscles and he's ready to put the day behind him. Ready to slide back into real life and forget this altered version of reality. Ready to leave behind what could've been.

"I'm gonna go wash up," Malcolm says as soon as the door to the apartment closes behind them. "Get rid of this dried blood."

"You need a hand?"

"No, I'm good. Thank you, though." Malcolm gives Gil's hand a quick squeeze and then heads for the bathroom. He shuts the door with a light snick and takes a moment to lean back against it, his head resting heavily against the wood. The hike up all those stairs was more exhausting than he'd care to admit and his head is absolutely pounding, feeling like a drum line has taken up residence in his skull.

When the beat in his head finally eases, just a little, he pries himself away from the door and begins to strip down. He lays his suit jacket and pants on the vanity, knowing that his dry cleaner is going to hate him, then tosses his shirt in the garbage as a lost cause; there's far more blood staining the fabric than he'd expected. His boxer briefs and socks are abandoned to the floor to be thrown in the laundry later, and then he's stepping into the warm spray of the shower, letting the grime and memories wash down the drain together.

He closes his eyes and angles his face to the streams of water, letting the blood slowly rinse away, knowing he'll have to be gentle with the shampoo and face wash when it comes time to clean it all off.

"You can't just send me spiraling down that drain with the dirt and blood, you know." 

The voice comes from behind him, and Malcolm spins around so fast he nearly loses his balance, grabbing onto the wall at the last minute to keep from taking yet another fall.

"You did this to me, Malcolm. You called me to your house, and then you let me drink that tea. You _knew_ what your father was, and you let him do this to me." That flicker of something predatory in Gil's eyes grows stronger as he steps forward, right into the streaming water, backing Malcolm up against the cold tile behind him.

The water soaks the cardigan immediately, leaving it sopping and heavy on Gil's frame as he closes the distance between them. The water rains down on his wild hair, taming it ever so slightly, but Gil still looks almost feral, just barely in control. And he doesn't seem to mind the water that's pouring over him in the least. Malcolm isn't even sure if he's noticed it at all.

Gil ( _not Gil_ , his brain screams) stalks forward until they're only inches apart, until the water that's pelting down on Gil pings off his cardigan and hits Malcolm, too.

"I paid for crimes that weren't even mine. Maybe it's time for you to pay for yours."

Malcolm's mouth opens and closes, unable to speak, to beg for mercy, to tell him that it was just a dream (that _he_ is just a dream) and there's nothing for which Malcolm has to atone.

Gil presses right up against him, the sodden fabric scratchy against Malcolm's bared body as it rubs against his belly and chest, his sensitive skin chafing at the friction. The hand that slides up his arm — slowly, gently — sends a shiver shooting through Malcolm, a spark of electricity as his body responds to Gil's presence, heedless of the fact that he knows it isn't Gil at all, that Gil is probably in the kitchen right now, frying some eggs in hopes that he can get Malcolm to eat something before bed.

As the fingers run out of arm to trace, they slide around the back of Malcolm's neck, but the thumb comes to rest under his jaw, applying just enough pressure to force Malcolm to look up into eyes he knows so well but somehow doesn't recognize at all.

"I'm reclaiming my freedom, Malcolm Whitly," Gil's voice is low, almost a growl and, despite the buzz of fear that's skittering just beneath Malcolm's skin, he feels himself growing hard, pressing against Gil's thigh, against the sopping wet fabric of his Claremont issued pants. Gil leans in as he adds, "Reclaiming everything I could have had for all those years."

The scruff of this Gil's full, unkempt beard scratches the skin of Malcolm's cheek as he speaks, his mouth almost pressed up against Malcolm's ear, the heat of his breath curiously warm over Malcolm's cooling skin. The feel of it all is enough to pull the tiniest of moans from Malcolm's lips. Needy. Desperate. More than a little fearful.

The rapid knock at the door has Malcolm whipping his head towards the sound, but the movement makes the room spin and sway. He slams his eyes shut as he throws his hands out, bracing himself on the tile walls around him to keep from crumpling to the ground.

"You okay, kid?" Gil's voice floats through the door, muffled and worried.

Apparently his moan hadn't been quite as quiet as he'd thought.

"Yeah, I'm fine" Malcolm calls out, breathless in a way that makes him grimace, wondering if Gil is going to just walk in and make sure he's truly alright. He clears his throat and adds, "I'll just be a minute longer."

"Okay. Call if you need anything."

Malcolm holds his breath, waiting to see if Gil says anything more, if he comes in to check on him regardless (it wouldn't exactly be the first time Malcolm claims to be okay when he's anything but). But the door stays resolutely closed and no more questions float through the grain of the wood and Malcolm eventually exhales a shaky breath.

Then he forces himself to open his eyes.

And finds himself alone.

He's relieved. Mostly. But there's a part of him that's disappointed, and he can't bring himself to psychoanalyze just what that means. Not now. Instead, he takes advantage of the solitude to quickly shampoo his hair, gently scrubbing away the matted blood and dirt, and then gives his body a quick wash as well. 

After rinsing all the suds away, he shuts off the water and steps out of the shower, toweling off quickly. He doesn't bother to dry his hair quite as well as he normally would; his head is still tender, still making his ears ring and his vision lurch every now and again. He has no interest in aggravating it further with a towel.

But soon enough he's dry-ish and dressed in sweats and the softest t-shirt he owns. It's amazing how much better he feels once he's clean. 

"Think you can eat something?" Gil asks as Malcolm shuffles towards the kitchen. There's already two plates of eggs and toast on the kitchen island, and Malcolm grins at Gil's predictability as he slides onto a stool. With a quick peck to Malcolm's cheek, Gil places the plates in front of them both as he takes his own seat.

Gil clears his plate as they chat about the Bowery Ripper case. Malcolm manages nearly half of his dinner before he slides it over to Gil, letting him finish the food he just can't manage. It's comfortable, domestic, being with Gil like this. Over a year of dating and he's still getting used to how much he likes it.

They take their time puttering around the loft after that, but eventually head to bed when Malcolm winds up yawning steadily as they attempt a game of chess.

And settling into bed next to Gil is something that he hopes he _never_ gets used to. The butterflies that still explode in his stomach as he crawls in next to the man, the tingle that spreads over his skin as Gil tugs him close and Malcolm rests his head on Gil's chest, the warmth that blossoms inside of him when Gil kisses the top of his head...he wants that to last, always.

But as he lays there, his fingers idly slipping through Gil's chest hair, he starts to remember when the _other_ Gil had him pinned against the bathroom wall. Recalls the undercurrent of danger that flowed just beneath the surface of that version of his lover. 

Unknown. Fierce.

A sudden rush of blood to his cock accompanies the thought and before he knows it, completely unintentionally, he's rocking his hips against Gil's thigh, searching to relive that moment in the shower.

Gil chuckles under his breath, raising his head from the pillow to look down at Malcolm. "Oh, really?"

And fuck if hearing the rumble of Gil's words through his chest isn't the perfect reminder of the near growl of that other Gil. His hips start to pick up pace, his tongue darting out to curl around Gil's nipple, so close to his mouth.

Gil hums, low and breathy and beautiful and Malcolm gives up the pretence of this being just a simple tease, pulling himself up enough to shove down his pants and boxer briefs. He kicks them beneath the covers before moving to Gil, pulling off his boxers to leave him gloriously naked.

"What's gotten into—" Gil's words are cut off with a groan as Malcolm tosses the blankets to the end of the bed and then immediately leans down to wrap his lips over Gil's soft cock, sucking lightly as he pulls back up.

He manages to bob his head a few more times before Gil finds his words again.

"Fuck. Bright, are you sure about this?" Gil's voice is a peculiar mixture of concerned and aroused and it just spurs Malcolm on. He swirls his tongue over the head of Gil's cock, tilting his head to look up at the man as he does it, not even attempting to hide the smirk that's pulling at his lips. Gil's voice is deep with arousal as he asks, "What about your concussion?"

Malcolm points his tongue and dips it into the slit before answering. "We'll go slow. I want this, Gil. Need you inside of me."

"C'mere," Gil says, encouraging Malcolm to climb up his body and helping him to settle one leg on either side of his hips, straddling him like he's meant to be there. He tugs Malcolm's shirt off then pulls him down into a deep and searching kiss, their tongues sliding together, exploring one another's mouths. By the time Malcolm pulls back to catch his breath, he can feel Gil's erection resting hard against the crack of his ass.

Malcolm reaches over to the nightstand and grabs the lube, drizzling some onto his fingers. He reaches back and starts with one finger, rubbing lightly at his hole, waiting for the muscle to relax before pressing in. His body opens to the touch easily and it isn't long before he's adding a second and then a third, working himself as best he can at that angle.

Gil, meanwhile, takes the bottle of lube and squirts a line onto Malcolm's cock where it stands proud and hard between them, before wrapping his fist around it and stroking, heightening Malcolm's pleasure exponentially.

"Fuck, Gil," Malcolm pants, writhing between his own fingers and the tight tunnel of Gil's fist.

"You called?" The voice, laced with danger, comes from behind him and Malcolm's fingers freeze in place, buried deep in his ass, his heart leaping into his throat. 

"Kid?" Gil asks, the hand on his cock slowing until it stops fully, concern written all over his face.

Malcolm forces out a breath and bucks into Gil's hand, using his body to stall for enough time to form a verbal response. He can feel the scruff of not-Gil's beard rubbing at the juncture of his neck as he nips and bites at Malcolm's skin, and he thinks he may just come from the unexpected stimulation of having both Gil's working him at once.

"Close," Malcolm pants as he pulls his fingers from his hole. "Fuck me? Please?"

It's not the full truth, but it's also not a lie, and Malcolm is clearly convincing enough that Gil doesn't question it further. He _does_ let go of Malcolm's cock — and Malcolm lets out a cry that's half despair and half relief when the contact disappears — to reach down and grab hold of his own length, lining up with Malcolm's entrance.

"You ready?" Gil asks, nudging at the fluttering ring of muscle.

"Oh god, yes," Malcolm moans, lowering himself onto Gil's thick cock. As he's sliding down, as Gil's hands settle firm on his hips, another set of hands slip under his arms and around his chest, fingers unerringly finding his nipples and squeezing hard. "Fuck!"

The hands on his hips grip him tighter, keeping him from dropping any lower, from bottoming out. Worried.

"Don't stop moving, Detective Whitly." The deep voice growls in his ear while fingernails dig into the sensitive buds of his nipples. "After getting me locked up for twenty years, I think the least you can do is give me a show. Don't you think?"

"Yessss," Malcolm hisses when his nipples are twisted viciously.

"Bright? You good to keep going? We can stop if you need to," Gil's voice is gentler, calming after listening to the other voice that's rumbling in his ear. For being the same, they're so very different.

"Don't stop," Malcolm begs, planting his palms on Gil's chest as he starts to ride Gil's cock in earnest, lifting up so far that it almost slips free before he drops back down, harder than he probably should. "Ungh. Harder."

Gil lets him set the pace, murmuring words of encouragement and praise, his hands sliding up to Malcolm's waist, steadying him but offering no guidance. The hands around his chest, though, are much rougher. Insistent.

So are the words growled in his ear.

"Harder, Detective. Show me what I've been missing all these years, locked in that room that you helped to put me in."

When Malcolm opens his mouth to protest, to argue that it wasn't his fault, that he never meant for it to happen like that (that it never _did_ happen like that), one of the hands that had been so ruthlessly tugging his nipples pulls away only to slap over his mouth.

"Uh, uh, uh, Detective. That mouth of yours just seems to bring ruin to everyone around you, doesn't it. Maybe you should keep it shut now."

Malcolm moans obscenely, and even through the hand that's covering his mouth, the sound bounces through the loft, echoing from the walls. 

"So good for me, Bright. So beautiful like this."

The contrast of the words, the tone, the touch, it all combines to intensify his pleasure, to send him soaring into heights he didn't even know he was capable of reaching. He feels like he's flying as the hand that was still on his nipple slips down to his cock and begins to jack him off, hard and fast and without mercy.

"Fuck!" Malcolm's scream breaks past the gag of Gil's hand and he receives a hard bite to his earlobe in retaliation. Hard enough that he thinks it may have drawn blood, even _hopes_ that it did.

"Is that an invitation, Detective?" The hand on Malcolm's cock speeds up as not-Gil poses the question that Malcolm's been waiting for with equal parts dread and anticipation. "You invited me to your home back in '98 and it didn't end well for me then. You gonna make it up to me now, Whitly?"

Malcolm nods vigorously. He wants this, wants to make it up to Gil. Wants to please every version of Gil there is.

Both hands from behind him abruptly let go and Malcolm's body sags forward, falling onto Gil's chest as he slows his pace to a slow rock. Gil — _his_ Gil — takes advantage of the new position to trail his hands up Malcolm's back and then cup his face, pulling him in for a remarkably soft kiss.

"I love you so much, kid," Gil whispers, holding Malcolm so gently it makes him ache.

"I love you, too," Malcolm whispers right back, meaning it with all his heart.

"Well, isn't that sweet? He gets _I love you_ and a warm hole to fuck into, and all I got was _my daddy's a killer_ and a piping hot cup of crazy tea." 

A thick finger nudges where Malcolm and Gil are joined, sliding in on Gil's next thrust into Malcolm's body. It's all Malcolm can do to drop his head to Gil's shoulder, biting down on his lip to keep from crying out at the additional stretch. It's more than he's ever taken before and it's so much, maybe too much, but it's fucking glorious and he never wants it to stop.

A second finger joins the first, stretching his rim taut and making him gasp, but soon enough those fingers are pulling out, and Malcolm knows exactly what comes next. He braces himself as he feels the cock that he knows so well nudging against where he's already being split open.

He's not going to last.

That other Gil, the version that doesn't love him and never has, pushes in with one firm thrust and Malcolm absolutely keens. A deafening howl rips from his lungs, but before he's even run out of air the man is pumping his hips, fucking into him with abandon. "Over two decades...of forced celibacy...takes a toll," he grunts as he fucks Malcolm with a violence that _his_ Gil would never resort to.

His Gil, who is laying beneath him, rolling his hips in slow and measured circles, holding Malcolm in a delicate embrace as he whispers in his ear, "I love you. So glad you're safe, kid."

The hot sting of tears builds behind Malcolm's eyes, feeling like he's betrayed both of the men inside of him in very different ways, but the relentless pounding of his prostate makes it impossible to focus on the guilt for long and before he knows it, he's coming with a silent scream, only vaguely aware of the two hot loads that shoot into him simultaneously, just moments after his own release.

He lays panting on Gil's chest as both men pull out of him, leaving him empty and aching and it's only as the endorphins begin to fade that he realizes just how terribly his head hurts.

"Shit, Bright. That was...amazing," Gil murmurs in his ear and holds him close as he traces meandering circles along his spine. "Are you alright? 

Malcolm's honestly too fucking tired to move, but he forces himself to look around the room before he answers, finding that it's just him and Gil again, with no sign that the other man was ever there at all. He hums an affirmative as he tucks his face into the crook of Gil’s neck, praying that he's seen the end of that other version of Gil, the one that he destroyed so thoroughly. Hopefully, Malcolm thinks as his eyelids flutter closed, a good night's sleep — time to rest his concussed brain — will clear the last of that dreamworld from his mind. Because as mind-blowing as the sex was, Malcolm doesn't think he can cope with another hallucination in his life right now.

As sleep comes to claim him for the night, just before he surrenders to the darkness that seems so overwhelmingly inviting, he hears Gil's quiet voice as it settles over him like a blanket, sounding more confused than concerned.

"Is your ear bleeding?"

**Author's Note:**

> Writing two versions of Gil was a trip! If there was anything here that you found especially confusing as to which Gil was doing something, please feel free to let me know so that I can make it a little clearer.
> 
> Thank you for giving this one a read!!


End file.
